


A Shrug Is Just a Lift of the Shoulders

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Braeden is a bad ass, But it's so minor that i don't know if it counts?, Canon Compliant, Deaton is a veterinarian, F/M, Human Derek Hale, I had this labelled Draeden, Pre-Slash, They should have remembered that, pre-sterek feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assassins are after them all, the town is going to hell, and no one but Stiles seems to give a shit that Derek is losing his power.</p><p>Including Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shrug Is Just a Lift of the Shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself giggle at the idea of Deaton making Derek (or any of the werewolves) wear a cone of shame earlier today. I started writing this with end game being Derek/Cone of Shame.
> 
> Instead of crack!fic, however, this happened. I still don't know where I went wrong.

"What," Stiles says, face set in angry lines. Then he blinks, drags a hand down his face, mutters, "Jesus Christ, now _I'm_ doing it," and then rolls his neck, pasting an exaggerated inquiring expression on his face. "What **?** " he asks, his voice rising on the end to such an extent that the question mark is undeniable in his tone.

Derek just rolls his eyes and turns back to Scott, ready to assist in planning how to take down the Benefactor — and hopefully get his money back, but he's not _Peter_ , okay? He genuinely cares more about the lives on those lists than he does about the insane amounts of money that Meredith stole from them. If it was Meredith, which he's still having a hard time believing.

Besides, he still has a few million scattered in banking accounts around the country and a fairly decent investment portfolio. No one in their right mind keeps all their money in _bearer bonds_ , for crying out loud. He'll be fine, he just won't be buying up lots of land for the abandoned railway cars on them anymore. 

Maybe.

But Stiles isn't ready to let it go that easily. What was old news to most of the people in the room is brand new to him, and even without the senses Derek's come to rely on his entire life, he can still see the visual evidence of Stiles working himself up into a froth. His skin is flushed and blotchy, his fingers are twitching at his sides, and his shoulders are set in stiff lines that the nervous energy thrumming through the rest of his body just _highlights_. Plus, his eyes are _blazing_ with emotion... chiefly, anger.

"Dammit, Hale, we're not ignoring this! What the hell is going on with you? You're _human_ now? How is that even possible? You're the one who told us that the only way to reverse the effects of the bite is to kill the—"

"I don't know," Derek says, biting the words off, crossing his arms defensively. He can't help but think that in his weakened state, a punch from an enraged Stiles might actually _hurt_ him.

Not that Stiles would punch him.

Unless he was already unconscious. Or potentially dying. 

"Besides," Scott says, looking up at them both from under his lashes, obviously reluctant to throw himself in the middle of this, but doing it anyway because he's always been the peacekeeper. "Derek was a born wolf."

"Is," Stiles mutters, fingers advancing from twitching to outright fluttering against the tabletop. "He's still a born wolf." Staring at Derek straight on, he takes a visibly deep breath to calm down before he asks quietly, "What did Deaton say?"

Derek looks down, reaches out for the map they've used so many times that the notes on it make it look like a pride flag at this point, and pulls it toward him as he avoids directly answering the question. "There's nothing he can do about it."

"Oh my god." Stiles shoves away from the table so hard that it slides across the floor, ramming up against Derek's hips hard enough that he thinks he might actually bruise. "You didn't tell him. You didn't…" He rakes a hand through his hair, and his anger is _palpable_. "You fucking _moron_. Your name's the key to the—" He goes silent instantly, sucking in a horrified breath as his eyes dart around the room before landing on Scott. They share one of those looks that seem to contain an entire novel of information, and then Stiles relaxes minutely. "Your name's the key to the third part of the list, and you're still acting like it doesn't matter if you live or die. Well, guess what, asshole? It matters. We're going to Deaton."

Derek looks to Scott, then Braeden, hoping one of them will save him from Stiles' — however well-meaning — overprotective brand of asshole. Braeden just holds her hands up, palm out, and purses her lips, the gleam in her eye looking far too amused. Derek narrows his eyes; see if he ever does that thing with his tongue again for _her_.

Scott, unsurprisingly, is completely on board with bringing Deaton into this. He's smiling, whole body sagging in relief, and clapping Stiles on the back, his chin dipping in a nod. 

Leaning forward, Derek clears his throat to get their attention. "We don't have time for that. Have you forgotten we're currently embroiled in a situation that includes _your father's deputies_ turning into arm chair assassins?"

"Christ, Derek," Stiles says, rolling his eyes with his entire body. "First, who the hell uses a word like 'embroiled' in casual conversation? Put down the thesaurus, buddy. Second, if we let you walk around untreated much longer, the assassins aren't going to have to waste a bullet to put you under the ground. You'll put _yourself_ there." When Derek opens his mouth to object, Stiles' face goes tight, serious, and his voice drops to a tone Derek's only heard once before, when Stiles was asking Jennifer where his dad was. "We can't lose anyone else, Derek. We'll… we'll break. I can't go to another fucking funeral, okay? I just…" His arms cross over his body, not defensively, but like he's trying to hold himself together. "No one else dies."

Derek's never been able to stand in the face of the shattered sound of Stiles' voice shivering with emotion, so he just jerks his head in a nod.

—

They go to the clinic as group because they're not stupid. Braeden's in the back of the Jeep, a small arsenal and extra clips piled around her as she holds a rifle at the ready. It's a good look on her, and from the way Stiles keeps sending appreciative glances into the rear-view mirror, Derek knows he thinks so too. 

It's sort of hilarious, actually, how fumbling and nervous Stiles gets around her when he's not focused on the assassins out for their blood, Kate being back in town, the constant danger they're all in, or the rate at which Derek is being drained of power.

When they arrive at the clinic, Scott's there at his door almost instantly, having ridden ahead on his dirt bike. Derek can see his nostrils flaring as he scents for others in the vicinity, his head cocked, listening. When he pulls open the door, Derek is as certain as he can be that it's safe. For now. Not that he's willing to waste time getting into the relative safety of the clinic. He pauses automatically at the counter, waiting for someone else to break the mountain ash barrier, but when Stiles reaches to do it, he throws his hand out. 

It's not something Derek really _thought_ about, but with this test in front of him, he couldn't help but consider it. He blinks rapidly, entire body feeling numb and shocky as he approaches the counter. He can hear footsteps coming toward them, but his entire being is focused on the slab of wood that completes the barrier, closes the circle against the supernatural. Rubbing his suddenly-damp hands against his jeans nervously, he breathes deeply before lunging toward the counter, grabbing the wood, and flipping it up and over.

It's like there was no barrier there at all.

Derek's stomach drops at this incontrovertible proof that whatever bit of werewolf he'd retained was gone. His entire heritage, burned out of him as if it never existed. He hears a rushing noise in his head and it's like he can't _breathe_ , and suddenly he's on his knees, right there in the opening through which everyone else has to pass to get to the exam rooms in the back. The pain shooting up his legs is a dull throb, easily ignored, like it's happening to someone else.

"Derek," he hears, the voice sounding like it's coming through water. Then there are hands on his shoulders, shaking him, and he's being dragged back against a chest — flat, male — and the voice is closer, in his ear, in his _head_ , telling him to "Breathe, big guy. Just breathe. We'll figure this out. I _promise you_ we will figure this out, but you have to breathe. Okay? In and out. In. And out."

When Derek finally comes back to himself, he sees Deaton in front of him and can feel tears on his cheeks. He brushes them away haphazardly, still feeling too empty for anything like embarrassment. 

Deaton squats down, peering into Derek's face. "It appears we have things to discuss. Please come to the back whenever you feel ready."

Like he's moving around in a body not his own, Derek pulls away from Stiles and staggers to his feet.

Braeden's standing guard in the lobby, having switched her rifle for a shotgun in hand and two pistols in thigh holsters at the ready. Her face, when he finally regains control of himself, doesn't show an ounce of emotion — no pity or compassion, but no judgement either. She simply scans him once as if looking for potential injuries — or weak spots — before nodding once and turning around to look through the plate glass windows.

It's a relief and a disappointment combined. He knows their relationship exists only on the physical plane, but a little concern would be nice. 

He pushes that disquieting thought down, shrugs Stiles' hand off his shoulder, and stalks to the examination room. When he gets inside, he stops, too sudden for Stiles, apparently, who stumbles into his back. 

"What—"

But Stiles stops speaking as soon as he sees what had drawn Derek's attention — the giant steel tub set up in the middle of the room.

"Oh. No. In fact," Stiles says, the words spitting across the tense silence of the room, " _hell_ no. The last time you pulled this shit, we woke up the fucking Nemeton. So no. There's got to be another way to deal with supernatural shenanigans, Deaton!"

Deaton just turns to them with artfully raised eyebrows, flitting a dismissive glance at the tub. "Oh, that's not for you."

"Well then, who's it for?" 

Deaton just calmly blinks at Stiles, his lips curled up in that way that says he's quite adept at neutering animals and will happily remove your balls for you — for a small fee, because he's a professional and he gets paid for this shit.

"You know what?" Derek intervenes, unable to stop himself from physically moving between Deaton and Stiles. "Not the point." He shrugs his shirt off, tossing it on the table, and reaches for the bloodied bandage at his side. "This is."

For the first time since he's known the kid, he manages to do something to shut Stiles up. For a minute. Of course, the wound does look like something out of a low-budget horror movie.

"How long?" Deaton says into the blessed silence.

"I don't… know," Derek admits. When Deaton locks gazes with him, radiating no-bullshit vibes, Derek lifts his shoulders. "Since Mexico?"

Deaton directs him to a cabinet, where all manner of medical gear is stored. He pulls a penlight out of his pristine white coat and shines it over Derek's side before he hmms and straightens. Pulling out a drawer, he removes a thermometer and then says, amiable, "Mr Stilinski, I'll have to ask you to go wait with Scott and the young lady."

"What? No." Then, as if thinking better of it, Stiles says, voice sounding deeply suspicious, "Why?" 

"I need to take Derek's temperature."

As the implications sink in, Derek blanches, wishing for the first time that _any_ of them had thought to go to the _hospital_ instead of a vet clinic.

—

After Deaton has taken his vitals — Derek feels vaguely nauseous and _violated_ , even though Deaton had been highly professional about the whole ordeal — he calls Scott and Stiles back in. Well, he only invites Scott back, but Stiles is right on Scott's heels, and no one bothers telling him he has no business back there.

"Well?" Stiles blurts, impatient. He immediately shoves his thumb in his mouth, chewing on the side of it, as he vibrates with tension and nerves, his eyes skittering between Deaton and Derek. 

"Well, if I hadn't seen him break the barrier at the front counter, I'd be more concerned with his vitals. His blood pressure is low, his temperature about three degrees cooler than normal, and he has a human slow healing factor, as evidenced by the wound in his side."

"Wait, what?" Stiles swallows, eyes round and horrified. "His temperature is _three degrees cooler than normal_? Hypothermia sets in around 95 degrees! What's his temperature now? How long do we have before…"

"His temperature was 98.5."

Stiles blinks, staggers back as his shoulders slump, and he looks confused. Derek would be more amused by that, but he's still struggling to come to grips with… everything. "But that's…" Stiles says, pointing at Deaton.

"Absolutely normal for _humans_. As was his blood pressure, his heart rate, his respiration."

Stiles scowls down at the floor, then looks at Derek from beneath his lashes. "But what does that _mean_?" he asks, voice quiet.

Derek just shakes his head and grabs his shirt, pushing past Scott, who's leaning in the doorway. He knows he can't go far since Stiles brought them, but he can't… he can't _stay_ in that room for another minute. 

Braeden sees him coming and hefts her shotgun, resting it on her shoulder as she lets her gaze crawl over his chest, openly appreciative. Oh, right. He should probably put his shirt back on.

"Wanna get out of here?" She's smirking, one hip cocked out, and she's absolutely beautiful.

"Yeah."

She brings her hand up, and between two fingers, she's got a key. "McCall might be the Alpha, but he's shit at personal space awareness. I lifted the key to his bike. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Derek feels the tension slowly leaching from his shoulders. He can feel a genuine smile stretching across his face and maybe it doesn't mean anything. In fact, he knows it doesn't mean anything, but it's kind of a relief to have someone close that legitimately doesn't give a shit. It's what he needs.

For now.

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone else notice the complete lack of cone of shame? Anyone? Bueller?
> 
> *guzzles wine directly from the bottle*
> 
> Also, please don't hate on the Draeden. I fully support the good kayak Draeden.


End file.
